I laughed and then scrolled down to an immediate kick in the balls.

One hoots but can’t shit, and one shoots but can’t hit

On the right palm, on the forehead, on the left palm, and on the abdomen. The first victim is discovered in the Florida Everglades. 0, 8, 2 on his hands and forehead. 5 on his abdomen. “We believe the numbers may be significant,” a uniformed man reads from a prepared statement to the press, “but we cannot say for sure at this time.” Detective Pierce has seen more faces of death than any man should ever have to endure, but this case—this seems different, somehow. Another victim is discovered in the marshes of Louisiana soon after. 0, 8, 0 on her hands and forehead. 19 on her abdomen. Are they connected? Law enforcement in Louisiana contact the agency in Florida. Criminal psychologists and cipher experts are called in to decode the strange numerical messages. Nothing yet. There isn’t enough data. Detective Pierce knows, if there is a deeper meaning, it will only surface with more bodies. To solve the murder, more must be committed. A cruel irony. A third victim emerges, and a macabre certainty is apparent—a serial killer. 0, 6, 9; 2 “What could it mean?” Detective Pierce ponders over a table littered with dozens of photographs. The psychological stress begins to weigh on him. He first began the investigation into the mysterious number killings, and he now makes it his mission to discover the secret of these symbols and put an end to this evil. More victims. 0, 7, 1; 6 0, 6, 5; 10 0, 7, 8; 8 0, 7, 3; 12 0, 6, 9; 4 0, 7, 8; 9 “069 repeats!” the authorities notice after the ninth victim is discovered. “It’s certainly a code!” “And here! The victims with 8 and 9 on the abdomen have identical numbers on the hands and forehead too: both 0, 7, 8.” Detective Pierce broods over this information. He locks himself away with the numbers, poring through literature about ciphers and codes. He devises complex algorithms to analyze the data, looking for patterns. Pierce has always put work before his family. His colleagues will all tell you that. But the domestic strain from the number killings is pushing his relationships to the brink of collapse. Another body in Florida. 0, 8, 5; 17 Pierce is on the scene, crouching over the Number Killer’s latest conquest, examining the slapdash 17 scrawled unceremoniously on the abdomen. “Detective Pierce.” A voice from behind him. Pierce stands and peels the purple nitrile gloves from his hands and glowers at the intruder on his crime scene. “Agent Rickson. Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my crime scene now, sir. I’ll need a full briefing.” “The hell it is!” Pierce snaps back. “I’ve been working these killings from day one! You think you can just come in here with your federal mandate and expect me to catch you up on all the work my people have done?!” Agent Rickson hands Pierce a bound legal envelope. “You’ve been relieved.” “This isn’t over. You’re gambling with people’s lives…sir.” Detective Pierce practically spits the final word at the agent’s feet before snatching the envelope and rushing off the scene. Over the next two weeks, eight more victims. Pierce’s anxiety has left him unable to leave his office. He hasn’t been home in three days. Though he’s officially off the case, he’s still haunted by the numbers and mounting body count. His work has suffered to the point that his superiors have issued reprimands. At his wits’ end, Detective Pierce pulls officer Malloy into his office. Malloy is a rookie who’s eager to please and has a knack for numbers. “I need you on special assignment, rookie.” Pierce is looking pensively out his office window when Malloy enters. “Special assignment, sir?” “Secret, special assignment, Malloy.” He turns and places a sealed envelope on the table. “I need you to collect everything we have on the Number Killings. Meet me at the address enclosed here. Tomorrow night. Midnight. Tell no one.” “But sir, I thought you had been reliev-” “Dammit, rookie! Do you want more people to die?! We need to figure out this nonsense now or we’re going to end up with dead bodies in triple digits, son!” Malloy reluctantly agrees. He smuggles boxes of files and pictures out of the precinct late the next night and meets Pierce at an abandoned warehouse to go over the information. For hours, the two sit at opposite tables, running numbers, delving into research, and analyzing the evidence, late into the early hours of the morning. With a sudden energetic vigor, Malloy springs from his chair and cries out, “ASCII!” Startled out of his analytic trance, Pierce inquires, “What did you say, Malloy?” “ASCII! It’s a computer language that uses numbers to represent letters! Look!” Malloy pulls up a reference sheet and begins arranging numbers on Pierce’s desk. “If we take the abdomen numbers as the order, and the palm and foreheadnumbers as the code for the letter…” “Malloy, you’re a genius!” Working furiously, Pierce and Malloy clear a space on the dusty warehouse floor to lay out the pictures in sequence: Abdomens: 6, 12, 17… G, I, U… 4, 9, 11… E, N, G… In minutes, the men have spread 76 photos over a 10 foot square of the warehouse floor and scratched nervous letters on ripped sheets of notebook paper under each group corresponding to the symbol. As they finish, Malloy stands back to survey the message. “No…” All blood drains from his face. His legs go weak, and he collapses onto his knees. “It can’t…It just…It can’t! Detective Pierce is wide-eyed next to Malloy’s broken form, mouth agape. A sound from the warehouse wall rattles the building as a dozen federal agents storm the facility. “Mother of God…” Pierce doesn’t even notice the agents. His unbroken stare is consumed by the message on the dusty warehouse floor. Agent Rickson grabs hold of Detective Pierce. “You’re under arrest for interfering with a federal investigation and tampering with evidence.” Malloy sheepishly confesses. “I told them everything! I told them you wanted me to take the evidence. It was a setup. I was worried about you. I’m sorry! But I never thought…oh God! What can we do?!” Pierce is handcuffed, and as he is dragged backward from the grotesque mosaic of death, he laughs in spite of himself, “You monster…” As he comes back to his senses, Pierce begins tearing at the agents pulling him away. He lets out a shrill, animalistic shriek… “YOU MONSTER!!” The other agents crowd around the space on the floor that has itself become a crime scene, and in an eerie silence, they collectively ponder the ethereal message left by the elusive Numbers Killer: “NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP” ​ EDIT (TLDR): Thanks for the support, and also some people are asking for a tldr because (obviously) it's really long. Here's a video to basically sum it up. Have a nice day. Also, thank you /u/about_tyme for ASCII number edits.

RIP Larry Tesler, the UI designer that created Cut, Copy and Paste, died age 74

Well, at least that's been my experience so far.

So a guy walks into a brothel. He only has $10 in his wallet, but he's truly desperate, so he asks the madam what he can get for it. She says "nothing. Try your luck in the streets or come back with some money." He says "please, I'm so desperate. Isn't there anything you can do for me?" Reluctantly, she says "well, we have a chicken. I suppose for $10 you can do what you can with that." The guy's unsure, but he hands it over and goes for it. Surprisingly, the chicken feels pretty good. He gets off and goes home. Next week, he goes back to the brothel with $10 and says "hey, can I see that chicken again?" The madam says, "I'm sorry, sir, the chicken passed away. But we do have a show tonight. Admission is just ten dollars." He agrees and squeezes into the auditorium. Two beautiful women are licking each other all over. He nudges the guy next to him and says "hey, this is pretty good!" The other guy says "you should have been here last week. They had a guy fucking a chicken!"

‘Really’ I said ‘No, April fooaarrrrglegargle’ That’ll teach her to be funny

Who’s there? Yah. Yah who? Sorry I prefer Google.

"Today we'll learn about the three stages of human emotion: surprise, irritation, and rage." With that, he takes his phone out of his pocket, puts it on speaker, and dials a random number. "Hello, may I please speak to Dave?" says the professor when the other person answers. "No, I'm sorry, you have the wrong number" says the person on the other end. "You see that students, that's surprise. Now allow me to show you what irritation sounds like." He picks up the phone again, and dials the same number. When it answers, the professor asks. "Hi, can Dave come to the phone?" "I told you you have the wrong number" "That's irritation, my friends" says the professor. "Now, let's look at what rage looks like" He picks up the phone and dials the number again. When it answers he asks. "Is Dave available?" "LISTEN, YOU FUCKING DIPSHIT. IF YOU CALL THIS NUMBER AGAIN, I'LL COME OVER, BREAK THAT PHONE IN HALF AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS. AND IF IT DOESN'T FIT, I'LL PUSH IT IN WITH MY COCK!!!!!!" "And that's rage." "Professor, you forgot the fourth stage," says a young man in the front rows. "And what might that be?" asks the professor. "It's called the stage of total confusion. Allow me to demonstrate" He comes up to the podium, takes the professor's phone and dials the same number. "Hello, this is Dave, has somebody called me today?"

I poisoned his milk but he found out and killed my dad.

I can also tell when they're standing.

A cheetah!

A man boarded an airplane and took his seat. As he settled in, he glanced Up and saw the most beautiful woman boarding the plane. He soon realized She was heading straight towards his seat. As fate would have it, she took The seat right beside his. Eager to strike up a conversation he blurted out, “Business trip or pleasure?” She turned, smiled and said, “Business. I’m going to the Annual Nymphomaniacs of America Convention in Boston." He swallowed hard. Here was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen Sitting next to him, and she was going to a meeting of nymphomaniacs! Struggling to maintain his composure, he calmly asked, “What’s your Business at this convention?” “Lecturer,” she responded. “I use information that I have learned from my Personal experiences to debunk some of the popular myths about sexuality.” “Really?” he said. “And what kind of myths are there?” “Well,” she explained, “one popular myth is that African-American men are The most well-endowed of all men, when in fact it is the Native American Indian who is most likely to possess that trait. Another popular myth is That Frenchmen are the best lovers, when actually it is men of Mexican Descent who are the best. I have also discovered that the lover with Absolutely the best stamina is the Southern Redneck.” Suddenly the woman became a little uncomfortable and blushed.. “I’m Sorry,” she said, “I shouldn't really be discussing all of this with you. I don’t Even know your name.” “Tonto,” the man said, “Tonto Gonzales, but my friends call me Bubba".

Quick answers please.

The weirdest part is having to rebury them

Stupid bastard started dancing around the shop.